SAEDNEWS: “Rushing inside, I found Mom and grabbed our black chadors. I’d parked my car a little way down the street—thankfully it started, and I managed to drive her to safety. Then I went back to the complex for Dad’s keepsakes… only to learn that the jets struck the same spot again, killing rescue workers.”
In the predawn stillness of Sunday 22 Tir, a sudden blast tore through the military residential complex where the families of Iran’s senior commanders lived. Thick clouds of smoke, shards of glass, and choking dust filled the air as homes once thought secure crumbled under the force of the explosion. Among those caught in the chaos was Zeinab Soleimani, daughter of the late General Qasem Soleimani. Rushing through darkness and debris, she fought to shepherd her mother to safety—and then, compelled by love and duty, returned to gather her father’s cherished mementos, only to witness a second, deadly strike on the rescue teams.
According to Saed News, Zeinab’s harrowing account lays bare the fear, courage, and heartbreak of that fateful night.
The wife of General Salami sat on the living‑room couch and recounted in a trembling voice:
“This house wasn’t like this. For two weeks, we’ve been sweeping up shattered glass, smoke, and dust. Not a single window was left intact.”
She went on to describe how the blast wave that leveled the homes of Generals Rashid, Rabani, and Bagheri had also damaged every neighboring house.
Zeinab, daughter of the late Haj Qasem Soleimani, added:
“Our house was even closer. Apart from the windows, the walls had cracked and crumbled.”
When asked, “Weren’t you scared being home alone with your mother?” she smiled, and with the courage flowing through her veins, replied,
“My husband wasn’t at home that night. I went to be with Mom.”
“We had dinner, and before sleeping—just like always—I went into Dad’s room. We didn’t touch the things that had become his keepsakes since his martyrdom; we simply looked at them and rearranged them. Being in his room always calmed me. I sat there with Mom for a while, then we went to sleep.”
At dawn’s call to prayer, Zeinab rolled out her prayer mat in the living room.
“Mom was praying in her room. We hadn’t turned on any lights—only the faint glow coming from outside. I was still in prostration when a terrifying roar and an immense blast of air struck. Shards of glass flew everywhere. I sprang up and ran toward the yard. It was pitch black, and the air reeked of dust and sulfur.”
Her eyes adjusted to find the courtyard floor littered with stones, metal fragments, and debris. She called for her mother and ran toward the alley, where she encountered the son of the martyr Kazemi. He yelled:
“Get out! Don’t stay in the house—run away!”
Frozen, Zeinab asked,
“What does that mean? Has something happened to Agha Rashid?”
Mohammad Kazemi caught up with her and warned,
“Don’t go. It’s really dangerous here. Another explosion might happen. Take your mother and run away.”
“Oh my God, Mom!” Zeinab cried, dashing back into the house barefoot. The living room—always so neat—was now carpeted in broken glass.
“Mom, looking ghostly white from plaster dust on the walls, stood in the middle of the house. I ran to her and hugged her. ‘Oh darling, you’re safe. Nothing happened. We have to go.’ We found our black chadors, grabbed our bags, and got out. I’d parked my car a little way down the street. Luckily it started right away, and I was able to drive Mom safely back to our home.”
Once her mother was safe, Zeinab couldn’t leave her father’s belongings behind. She returned to the complex, where rescue teams had already arrived. Mohammad Kazemi was guiding them to the damaged homes. Brave as his father, he shouted at Zeinab:
“Why did you come back? It’s too dangerous here!”
Without waiting to explain, Zeinab hurried into her father’s house. The blast had blown open his bedroom door. Using her phone’s flashlight, she began gathering his clothes, notebooks, and cherished mementos. Her hands shook, but some inner strength pushed her through the shards of broken glass.
Suddenly, the rattling of distant jets reached her ears. For a moment she felt a grim hope—perhaps she would reunite with her father. Then a close friend of his appeared, shouting so fiercely that Zeinab abandoned her rescue efforts. Grabbing the bag in her hand, she fled the complex.
Later she learned that the jets had returned and struck the very same spot—killing some of the rescue workers. Zeinab fell silent. No tears came, and her hands no longer trembled. She had recounted a story of profound loss and courage—and in that moment, there was no room for wails or lamentation.
